


Turning the Corner

by NiCad



Series: A New Way [1]
Category: The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Blood Kink, Dubious Consent, F/M, Flashbacks, Helmet rules, Past Relationship(s), Past Sexual Abuse, Poor Life Choices, Pre-Season 1, Redemption, Why did Din put up with it?, Why is Xi'an so terrible?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:22:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22232464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NiCad/pseuds/NiCad
Summary: Din had wondered if Xi'an's usual state of bloodlust mixed with, well, straight-up lust was just how she was, or if something… someone, had made her that way. Part of him felt guilty for not sticking around to figure that out. The other part knew she would likely have killed him before he managed to do it.He was lucky enough to have at least one good experience early on. She wasn't. Then life got in the way and knocked them both down. Horrible experiences made them both what they were and brought them together. He managed to break free and claw his way back to the road to redemption.She didn't.
Relationships: The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & Original Female Character(s), The Mandalorian (The Mandalorian TV) & Xi'an (Star Wars)
Series: A New Way [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1699135
Comments: 14
Kudos: 99





	1. Silence is Not Consent

**Author's Note:**

> I don't like Xi'an. Not at all. But I do feel compelled to explain her.
> 
> Explanations are not excuses.

_Trusting my soul to the ice cream assassin here  
You say you don’t want it again and again but you don't, don't really mean it  
You say you don’t want it this circus we’re in but you don't, don't really mean it_

Tori Amos, [Spark](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jVMwDd8V_kY)

* * *

She didn’t quite remember when she had turned the corner on _acting_ like a homicidal maniac to _actually becoming_ a homicidal maniac, but maybe it didn’t matter. In the end, the result was the same.

She survived. Others didn’t.

When they were little, Qin and Xi’an were not strong. They were not fast. And that was a problem in this world. The weak got killed. If you were lucky, that’s all you got. If you were weak and young, you got sold. Your owner waited until you grew strong and then used you. Alternatively, your owner waited until you grew lithe and then used you.

Qin and Xi’an were sold. Qin grew strong. Xi’an grew lithe. Their owner used them.

Then Qin and Xi’an grew quick. Xi’an honed her agility, her ability to move. Then honed her ability to see how others moved. Then learned how to use her movement to aim sharp objects at others to impair their movement. This, and Qin’s strength, bought their freedom.

Which is to say they murdered their captors by snapping their necks and slicing them to ribbons.

Xi’an was really, really good at stabbing and slicing other people to death, and knives were a bloodier weapon than most. Swords gave you at least a meter of distance – you didn’t have to get right up next to someone to kill them. Even with thrown knives, you still had to walk up to the body and pull the blade out if you wanted it back. Either way, you always ended up with someone else’s blood all over your hands. You either got used to it or you died. Or got sold.

After a while, Xi’an had learned to love it. Someone else’s blood meant her own escape from death or slavery. Pair those two things together enough times and the sight of blood became exhilarating. No one quite understands the word “bloodlust” like a knife fighter. Going pro seemed like the most logical course of action, and so she followed her brother to Ranzar’s mercenary group.

Not that mercs were any better than the rest of them. The only difference was that so long as you were on the same side, the chances of them killing, raping, or robbing you were slightly less. The more valuable your skill set was to the team, the lower your chances of those things happening became. Hyping your skill set with a kink for blood didn’t hurt, either.

Even so, she still couldn’t let her guard down. One single sign of weakness and they would be on her, in her, and through her.

Except maybe for one.

Except maybe for the Mandalorian.

He never participated in the lewd comments, retaining his characteristic silence. He never leered at her, at least as far as she could tell, the helmet never leaning down or craning around to follow as she passed by. She couldn’t reciprocate, of course. She had to join in when the others heckled him about the bucket. “Take it off, Mannnnndoooo. Let’s see those big beautiful eyes of yours.”

Girl had to do what a girl had to do.

She had noticed his tendency to retreat to an isolated corner to clean his weapons on a daily basis, even if they didn’t need it. The process seemed like a ritual with him. Being a Mandalorian, it actually was, and to a religious extent. One day she decided to experiment, bringing her knives to the same corner to sharpen them. He had done little more than turn his head to acknowledge her arrival before returning to his work. The silence had actually been companionable, no distracting banter. When he was finished, he simply picked up all of his stuff and left.

She joined him in this once every few days, more often if her blades had seen a bit of action. After a couple weeks, she ventured even further one day, sliding her foot up his right boot under the table, pausing where he kept his vibroblade. “I can sharpen your knife too, if you want.” She gave him her best open smile, running her tongue over her teeth.

The visor faced her, his chest rose and fell once, and then he spoke his first non-mission-related word to her. “Sure.” Leaning over, he pulled the knife from his boot and placed it on the table, hilt facing her.

She picked it up, ran her thumb along the edge, then locked her eyes back to the visor. “Sharp already. But I can make it sharper.” She squeaked with anticipation and ran the stone along the edge, enjoying how the blade rang when she reached the end of it with each stroke, enjoying how well-balanced it felt in her hand. It didn’t take long to get it as honed as it was going to get, and she almost didn’t want to give it back when she was done. She managed to part with it, placing it on the table, hilt facing him, trailing a finger back along the blade as she withdrew.

He picked it up, tested it with a light scrape along the durasteel plate on his chest, then replaced it at his boot. “Thank you.”

“Do you have any other long, hard objects you want me to handle?” Again, the open smile, this time with an even less subtle flip of a lekku.

He seemed to regard her for a few moments, as if laboring to make a decision. She kept her eyes pinned to that damned visor the whole time. Finally, he broke her gaze and began to pack up his weapons. “Maybe,” he replied, the measured tone of his voice revealing nothing. He holstered his sidearm, slung his rifle over his shoulder, picked up his cleaning kit, and left.

He did not turn to see if she was following, but she did anyway.

She had gone far, far too long.

Apparently, so had he.

He made no objection when she slipped through his door behind him. She made no objection when he locked it. He did object when she went for the helmet, and managed to pin both of her wrists above her head for the duration as a result. She realized she actually liked that, so it worked out. She was mildly surprised to learn that he seemed to know what he was doing, so that worked out as well. She wasn’t shy about the noise. If the others heard, so much the better. Knowing she was with the Mandalorian would give them further pause on any ideas they may still have had by this point.

And so she came to notice and appreciate how deadly Mando actually was. Most of the time, he was cool and methodical, exerting only enough to make the kills. It drove her wild. To see how much blood he spilled like it was nothing. Just a squeeze of the trigger. A slice of the blade. A twist of a head off of a neck. He was so _capable_. He made it look so easy. And yet, at the end of the day, when the others celebrated their victory, he would retreat to his quarters. She would follow, turning to return a rude gesture to the others as they cat-called her departure, then slip back through the Mandalorian’s door. He always cuffed her wrists to the bed frame, not trusting her after her first attempt at his helmet, and she couldn’t blame him for that. Even then, he was maddeningly quiet. Maddeningly slow.

It was only against the droids that he heated up. It was only against the droids when he put all of his muscle into it. He didn’t just deactivate them. He _eviscerated_ them. Dismembered them. Those were the days that got him breathing hard. After those days, he would turn to see if she was following him to his room. He would allow her to get rough with him before he finally cuffed her wrists. And finally, finally he would give in to her demands and allow himself to get rough with her.

She had to admit, that was a little weird. Even for her.

But, whatever. Girl had to do what a girl had to do.

After a while, she noticed he was spending more time on one of the gunships. The Razor Crest, of all things. A pre-Empire ship, it was older than they were. The first night she walked up the ramp, she caught him poking at an open instrument panel in the hold. “What’cha doin’, Mando?”

“Working,” he said simply.

She pressed next to him. “It’s past your bedtime,” she purred.

“The grav generator isn’t running the way I’d like.”

“It’s past _my_ bedtime.” She dragged her nails down his helmet, but was careful to not make any moves to lift it off, knowing he’d break her wrists at this point.

Sighing, he seemed to take her meaning and set the tools aside. He was almost reluctant, here in this space, so she went easy on him, knowing that was the price for getting anything close to what she wanted.

After several months, she came to realize that he meant to steal the Razor Crest and leave the group. She said nothing to Ran.

She meant to leave with Mando.

She thought maybe she could level out, here on this ship. He seemed to be more at peace onboard. He never let her spend the night in his room, but he’d let her go up to the flight deck and fall asleep in the pilot’s chair while he worked. She listened as he turned a wrench or lit a torch, listened as he made one upgrade after the other, listened as a laugh of surprise would bark out of him when something worked with less trouble than he expected. He only managed to electrocute himself three times. It would all be worth it. They could take whatever jobs they wanted. Not have to deal with Ran skimming off the top of their cuts anymore. Live their own lives.

She’d be safe with him.

And then the job that had gone bad.

She’d found Mando in a hallway full of bodies. Full of stormtroopers that he had mowed down. All that blood splashed all over that white armor. Of _course_ that had set her off and she’d had to reward him right there, pinning him to the wall. Neither one of them had realized Qin had been captured. No one had realized that he hadn’t gotten back to the ship by the time they had to leave.

Her brother was lost.

Three days later, Mando left with the Razor Crest.

He’d left _without her_.

Fucking, cold-blooded bastard _left her_.

It had never occurred to her that they had never actually talked about it.

That they had never actually _talked_.

That he had never told her his name.

It had never occurred to her that when they were together, his mind was somewhere else, somewhere that didn’t exist.

It had never occurred to her that he’d wanted to escape her as much as he’d wanted to escape Ran and Qin and slaughtering poorly-trained Imps.

Oh, she was going to kill him for this.

For leaving her brother.

For leaving her.

She imagined what it would be like to take his helmet off his shoulders. With his head still in it. Drenched in his blood.

Oh, she was going to _shred him to ribbons_.


	2. Moving On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When he realized that being taken advantage of by a woman with a death fetish was literally the least of his problems, he knew it was time to get out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take note - added a few more tags.

_Your wild days are through is what they said  
I dreamed she came, when I was down  
And I walked where she led_

Bruce Hornsby, [Across the River](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fmIJ-q9uCq0)

* * *

He was unused to being responsible for anyone other than himself.

Life in the midst of post-Empire upheaval was never about having “meaning.” Things like self-actualization and “living your best life” were remnants of the Old Republic and had never actually crossed his mind. For a decent chunk of his adult life, for longer than he cared to admit, life was only about trading the things he was good at for food in his belly and a place to sleep.

And Din Djarin was very, very good at killing people.

He didn’t have the luxury of being selective about his employers when he was fresh out of his childhood covert. He was only a shade on the tall side and, truth be told, a little scrawny in his younger years, so he didn’t make the imposing first impression that most Mandalorians seeking mercenary work usually projected. He was, however, a very good shot, and he quickly became known in merc circles for his marksmanship. His hand-to-hand combat skills were sound; he was a quick and scrappy fighter, so as the jobs came and the meals with them, he eventually put on enough muscle to gain a reputation for close-in fighting. Piloting came later, and as with everything else he’d put his mind to, he became proficient in flying, as well.

He did sometimes wonder what his life would have been like if he’d first staked his reputation on flying instead of shooting. All kinds of employers wanted someone who could fly. Only certain kinds of employers wanted someone who could end a life at a range of 200 meters. Or at the point of a blade. Whichever was required at the moment.

And so he’d fallen in with Ranzar Malk’s crew. Part of the reason he’d gotten the job was his nonchalance at Ran’s question about if he’d remembered the first time he’d killed someone. Din had shrugged a shoulder and said, “Nope.” His answer was an honest one – he’d fought so many battles as an adolescent defending the covert that there were any number of possibilities when he had likely killed an enemy. You never had time to stop and check if the people you put down actually died by the time things got mopped up. No score was kept. So long as you fought bravely, you earned your place. You earned your armor. A year or so after you completed your set, you left to earn for yourself. If you lived long enough to get good at that, you were welcome to hook up with a different covert and share what you earned with them to sponsor the next generation of Mandalorians.

This is the way.

To the extent that Mandalorians taught history, Din learned that they had been slaughtered at the hands of the Republic as it transitioned into the Empire. Sides no longer mattered. No questions asked so long as you served your own people. Most of the hits Malk’s group ran were against Imperial ships anyway, so, y’know, fuck them. Din had no qualms about spilling stormtrooper blood.

And so he got paid. He got fed. He got a bunk in a room to call his own with a lock on the door so he could take the helmet off at night and eat in peace. When Xi’an took an interest in him, he got laid. He hadn’t had many opportunities for that since leaving the covert, so again, he wasn’t in the position to be picky. The whole thing was sort of thrilling in an _I hope she doesn’t sink a blade into my throat when we’re in the middle of this_ kind of way. After the first time when she’d gone for his helmet, he’d decided it was best just to cuff her for the duration. He was usually so scared that it took him forever to finish, bringing her off a few times in the process. He was fine with letting her misinterpret terror for kink and stamina. Thank god for the helmet.

It beat being lonely, but not by much.

Ran’s group put him on edge to begin with. When the Imp targets started to get too hard and the softer independent targets started to look too tempting, Din knew he needed to jump ship as soon as he could. He’d been saving up for a few years – not much to do with his money on the Outer Rim. He’d already picked out which ship he would take. The Razor Crest was a solid ride and had served them well on more ops than he could count. He taught himself how to hack the title ownership logs; they’d be ready to switch over when he needed them, and he knew Ran wouldn’t risk coming after him for her. He spent as much of his free time on the ship as possible, teaching himself all he could, doing little upgrades here and there. In her saner moments, Xi’an would seek him out there, seemed to be gentler with him in that territory. After, she would slink up to the flight deck, settle into the pilot seat, and just stare out the windscreen, even though the only thing to look at was the rest of the hangar.

He almost sort of missed her like that. When she was calm. He had wondered if her usual state of bloodlust mixed with, well, straight-up lust was just how she was, or if something… someone, had made her that way. Part of him felt guilty for not sticking around to figure that out. The other part knew she would likely have killed him before he managed to do it.

The tipping point came when one job had gone particularly bad. The intel had been hilariously erroneous and he’d found himself slaughtering his way through nearly two dozen stormtroopers by the time it ended. Sure, they were Imps, but they were so poorly prepared, so poorly trained, that he’d almost felt sorry for them as they died at his hands. When it was over, he’d found himself standing at the end of a hallway full of bodies, drenched in blood that wasn’t his, the smell of plasma and burning iron stinging at the back of his throat. That was when Xi’an turned the corner, saw what he’d done, positively _oozed_ down the corridor, pushed him against the wall, bit him through the cowl around his throat, and… to be honest… he’d mostly blacked out by that point. He remembered enough scraps to know what had happened. She’d taken his silence for consent and had apparently been more than satisfied with the results.

Aaaand then he managed to abandon her brother when he’d launched the Razor Crest without him aboard. Qin had missed the rendezvous and TIE fighters were swarming. He hadn’t had a choice.

Hoo, boy, was that ever fucked up.

Maybe that was a flippant reaction, but when it got thrown into the mix of watching everyone in your childhood village get slaughtered, knowing your parents were slaughtered in the same manner, get trained to partake in the slaughter yourself, and then got really good at it… well… it all got lost somehow. When he realized that being taken advantage of by a woman with a death fetish was literally the least of his problems, he knew it was time to get out.

Three days later, in the small hours of the morning, he left the full amount of what he knew the Razor Crest was worth in credits in the drawer of Ran’s desk, told the guy standing watch that Ran needed him to do a quick milk run, and stole the ship.

He didn’t really steal it. He’d paid for it, after all.

He wasn’t a _total_ asshole.

The message he got from Ran two days later was amicable enough.

_Well, hey, Mando. Guess you finally grew up and flew the coop. Kinda left me in the lurch without a gunship; I can’t replace the ‘Crest with what you left me and we haven’t gotten Qin back yet, but we’ll make due. Good luck out there. Far as I’m concerned, you’re welcome back any time. Xi’an might cut your throat if you ever set foot out here again, though._

And thus he began his solitary life as a bounty hunter.

He liked working alone better. He realized that being lonely did, in fact, beat being scared. Didn’t have to keep his guard up all the time. The quiet of the ship was nice. The bounties were an interesting mix. Some were an entertaining physical or tactical challenge. Some were actually kind of funny. The ones he knew damn well were sociopaths were strangely endearing before he put them in carbonite. Only a few made life truly difficult, requiring him to end theirs, but they were in the minority.

There was the one New Republic bounty that irked him. Strict orders to bring her in warm; she _knew things_ and would have been useless to the client dead. She was considered a low flight risk, and the client actually preferred that she not get the carbonite treatment if at all possible. Indeed, she had come willingly, if grudgingly, and hadn’t been terribly annoying. What little she did say made it clear that she was not going to be properly compensated for her skill set, implying in a roundabout way that maybe Din should start asking questions about the jobs he was taking. He had been low on rations at the time, though. He held off as long as he could, but eventually, he gave her the choice between freezing and starving. She chose freezing.

Most people screamed or otherwise expressed some kind of agony upon that first blast from the carbonite chamber. She had clearly been through this before and knew what to expect. So when it came time, she stepped into the chamber, hands still bound, and looked him dead in the eye when he hit the button. When it was done, her face was frozen in a visage of stoic determination, and only then did he notice that she had folded her hands in such a way that both middle fingers were extended.

Everything about it said “Fuck you.”

Whether the message was for him, the people she would be delivered to, or both, he couldn’t tell, but he had to give her credit. She’d made him think. Put a knot in his gut for a week. Finally, he bounced, leaving for another bounty contact, another planet, another covert.

By then, he had gotten into the Guild, worked his way up, and was earning enough that he had money left over. Resources he could take back to whatever covert he was based at.

He circulated through the various coverts of the Mandalorian diaspora on the Outer Rim. Took up residence where a Guild contact could give him work, stayed until the bounties dried up, then moved on. He wasn’t looking to start his own clan. He’d been more of a loner even as a kid, so that was fine. He was content to give what he had to the foundlings, even if he had no desire to interact with them.

He knew he didn’t have it in himself to be a parent.

Now, he found himself landing the Razor Crest for the first time on Nevarro. Home of what sounded like a reasonable Guild contact. And his new covert. The Tribe.

He exited the flight deck, pulled his Amban from its place on the bulkhead and slung it over his back, descended the ladder, and then paused before opening the ramp.

He was prone to flashbacks. This one always forced itself upon him just before joining a new covert. He’d long since given up trying to stuff it down; the harder he tried, the harder it wound up hitting him in the end. So he stood, bowed his head, and let it come.

* * *

From an early age, the children at the covert he grew up at were taught the rules; that once you swore the Creed and took your helmet, you were never again to be seen with it off. The implication was that it could come off in the dark, but only with someone you trusted with your honor. You had to choose carefully.

As a culture that was rooted in war and at the edge of extinction, the Mandalorians were pragmatic about physical intimacy, engineering the emotional aspects around it such that they were taught how to get what they wanted, how to provide what was wanted, all with avoiding the deeper issues of attachment. Adolescents were instructed in basic techniques, how to decide when they were ready, how to negotiate consent, how to use contraception, how to understand when they were ready to bear children, the pros and cons of raising their children themselves or having them raised communally, the pros and cons of clan membership. They were also free to practice what they learned with each other, and Din remembered his first partner with a distant fondness.

Alaria.

She had been born at the covert, raised in a clan, and had remembered Din’s induction after his rescue when they were little. He had been reclusive, but a lot of foundlings were, arriving at the covert under circumstances of trauma. What had drawn him to her attention was that he was smart. Always had the right answers in class. Then some of the bigger kids had started a fight with him over it. That hadn’t gone so well for him, at first. She’d found him in the corner of a distant tunnel, hiding. “You’re a lot smarter than they are,” she’d said. “You shamed them, so they beat you up to shame you instead.”

“Four against one?” he’d responded, voice trembling. “I bet they liked those odds.”

Alaria had shrugged. “That’s why they failed in shaming you. But my mom’s fought off four at a time. She says I’ll have to some time, too.” She’d turned to him. “So will you.”

“How?”

She’d stood up and offered him a hand. “I’ll show you.”

She’d shown him a few moves, secrets of balance useful for smaller people fighting larger people, and so he’d been ready the next time they’d come for him. And so he’d learned how to be both smart and tough. And so when they were of age, she came back to him. Chose him.

He’d been undone with happiness at her offer.

They’d long since donned their helmets by then, but they both remembered each other’s faces. Trust came easy when the lights went out, trust that it would stay dark, trust that the helmets could come off with safety. Matured lines could easily be imagined with the trace of a fingertip along a jaw.

Together, they eventually developed a patient, unhurried style. They developed endurance. They developed passion.

They had been warned against love. Warned against forming too deep of a connection.

A lesson tested on their last night together before she left the covert. He remembered her tears, warm on his throat as they fell from the dark above him, and he reached up to thread his fingers through curls he recalled as tight and dark. “We knew this was coming,” he said, his voice soft.

“I know.” Her voice wavered. Being raised in a clan, it had been more difficult for her to ward off attachment. She had sensed Din’s withdrawal as her departure had approached, had envied him for his ability to pack that part of himself up and put it away. She remembered where that ability had come from, knew it was born of trauma, knew that someday, she would very likely face that same kind of trauma herself. Knew, in fact, that the covert’s decision to send her out first, to have her leave him, was a deliberate part of the lesson she needed.

His hands at her face were comforting, but his own face was dry. She remembered teaching him how to be strong years ago, when they were little. Now he was returning the gift, showing her how to be strong in the face of separation. His breath was even, his hands were steady.

For a little while, he helped her forget.

In the morning, he helped her with her armor, patchwork durasteel, much like his, gray cloak, sidearm, longsword slung across her back. When she was all kitted up, he held her for a brief moment, helmet to helmet. “ _Ner verd_ ,” he murmured. _My warrior_.

 _“Ner vod,”_ she replied. _My friend._

He followed her out, down the hall, and to the exit of the covert to see her off. He stood with her parents as she joined the rest of her crew, as she waited her turn to leave. When the time came, she pushed through the door, sunlight flooding through the opening, casting her armor in backlit silhouette.

She did not turn back.

He never saw her again.

He knew he wouldn’t.

This is the Way.

The image faded and he was once more back on the Razor Crest. He realized his hands were fisted tight, and he forced them to open.

How had things gone so wrong?

What would Alaria think of what he had become?

He took a breath, held it, and let it out.

He’d done what he had to do. He reminded himself that his choices had been limited early on, and that he’d made better ones once his options began to improve. His dark years were behind him. He’d turned the corner on that, good and hard. The fact that he was at Nevarro was further proof. The covert here had an abundance of foundlings, and he could afford to sponsor them. The ship he had lifted from the darkest part of his life now provided the means for respectable bounty hunting. His Guild rate was among the highest on the Outer Rim.

He was unused to being responsible for anyone other than himself, but he could put a dent in some of the troubles here. He had a lot to atone for. He could do that here. He could continue to make better choices.

This is the Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The episode The Prisoner really shook me up. Din used to hang out with some *really* *bad* people. More than likely, he was a *really* *bad* person himself. I wanted to give him some solid ground to start with, explain how he got knocked off of it, and hint at his swim back to shore.
> 
> I also felt like despite the draconian helmet rules, Mandalorians have to be pragmatic about sex and kids given both their near-extinction situation and what seems like a gender-egalitarian society, as far as I can tell, even if it is based on warfare. I wanted to work those two things into someone Din wants to redeem himself to, even though he'll never see her again.
> 
> In the Season 1 finale, I thought it was strange that Din didn't know his way around the covert tunnels very well, admitting that he only ever used one entrance. That only made sense if he hadn't been based out of Nevarro for very long, so I had him hopping around the galaxy for a bit.


End file.
